


oh, how romantic

by nonbinarynino



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Falling In Love, Multi, POV Second Person, Polyamorous Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 19:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17855846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonbinarynino/pseuds/nonbinarynino
Summary: The twelve times that the farmer falls in love.





	oh, how romantic

**Author's Note:**

> i can never decide who to marry

Penny's the first one.

She's nice to you from the beginning, even when she's too shy to say more than a few words at a time. She stutters through her all of  _hello_ s and all of her  _goodbye_ s, blushing through conversation that's just about the weather. At first, you think that it's just until she warms up to you, and  _then_ she'll be comfortable, but it takes just a little too long to realize that she's perhaps never been comfortable in her whole life. You grit your teeth every time that her mother passes by, always with so many words to say, and none of them ever productive. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why Penny acts the way that she does, and you only wish that you could find a way to make her life a little easier.

You fall in love with her quietly, not wanting to tarnish the silence with even more needless words than she's already been subjected to. It's the easiest thing that you think that you've ever done. You sit with her while she reads, and wave at her when she teaches Jas and Vincent. Penny's the type of person that people fall in love with for decades, centuries - and you want to give her that. You would do almost _anything_ to give her that. She deserves the type of lover that would write her name into the sky and stars, the type of person that would put her needs and wants over anything else.  _I can do that,_ you think.  _I can do that, if she'll let me._

 

* * *

 

When you find Abigail in the graveyard, she has a spark in her eyes that reminds you of when the mines go from freezing to burning hot. Her eyebrows narrow dangerously, her words venomous as she defends herself against something that you were not even thinking, and a feeling in your chest shifts and settles. She's making the face of somebody who has found their one true passion in life, somebody who will do  _anything_ to defend it, and there's nothing more bewitching than someone who's dedicated, is there?

There's something  _magical_ about her, you decide. From the way that her hair stays purple even though she has long since stopped dyeing it to the way that she looks at the wizard's tower with  _belonging_ instead of curiosity. It doesn't take very long before you realize that you are absolutely spellbound by her. _That's okay,_ you tell yourself.  _Loving two people at once doesn't inherently have to be a bad thing. Sometimes, it's a very good thing._ You could spend your whole life trying to figure her out, and you're not positive that you'd succeed, but you know that it would be a wonderful existence just the same.

She's determined and willful, but she's  _soft,_ too. When she offers you her art for you to judge, she does so almost  _shyly,_ as if she's scared that you'll say something mean. A distant part of you wonders if you would still think that her sketches were so stellar if it had been somebody else who had created them, but you fall in love with them regardless. You can tell where her colored pencil had hit the paper more harshly, you can tell where she'd been more delicate with the intricate designs. You think that if Abigail puts the same effort into loving people that she puts into her hobbies, the person who ends up with her will be the luckiest person alive.

 

* * *

 

There's something about the way that Sam moves. Everything that he does is so instinctive in such a beautiful way, previously practiced to the point where he doesn't have to think about it at all now. The tricks on his skateboard all land neatly, perfectly, and when you watch him play the guitar, he plays brand new songs as if he's already performed them a hundred times before. Most beautiful of all, though, are the times where he  _does_ mess up: when he falls flat on his ass or when he plucks the wrong chord. After every error, he always seeks you out and  _grins_ when he sees the smile on your face, as if he's proud of the fact that he made a mistake, as if he's proud of the fact that you got to see it.

The most charming thing about Sam, you think, is his humanity. Sometimes his hair looks as though it's just been through a tornado, no matter how many times he runs his hands through it. He likes when you side with him on things that are perhaps a little bit morally incorrect, even if it means going against his mom or the mayor. He bites his lip through his lies and smiles through serious moments, inappropriate in the best of ways, and every idiosyncrasy is so energizing that you feel like you could fight hundreds of monsters after every single conversation with him.

Loving him doesn't drown you, no, it breathes new life into you. It makes you laugh and grin and stare at his lips without shame. You give him all of the Joja Colas that you can find because hell knows that you're never going to drink them, and he gives you JojaMart pizzas that kind of taste like cardboard but somehow seem  _amazing_ when you're sharing them with him. Maybe that's a bit corny, but you've always been a little bit of a hopeless romantic. Every now and then, you think that he might catch you staring at him, but he never reacts more strongly than a quirk of an eyebrow, so you’re not quite sure.

 

* * *

 

You don't know if you've ever met somebody like Emily.

You feel it with all of the letters that she sends, with the recipes scrawled on the back and the cloth that she folds inside of the envelope. You feel it with the tangible warmth that is immediately present when you enter her room, even on the coldest winter days. You feel it with the fact that even though she's a little bit odd, and certainly with different interests and beliefs than anybody else in Pelican Town, not a single person has a bad word to say about her. Sure, Haley has a remark or two, but it's always clear that there's affection underneath every complaint. It's never anything that Emily has done  _wrong,_ either, only arguments that have two concrete sides.

She's not the type to slip you discounted beer when Gus isn't looking, no, but she's the type to listen to you wholeheartedly. She listens to your stories about what it's like when you're so deep into the mines that you almost forget what natural light looks like, to your memories of what home used to be back before you really knew what your future could hold. She listens and she guides and she helps, and she does so because that's simply who she is as a person. She cares about everybody, sees the  _good_ in everybody, and you deal with the very real possibility that you might not even deserve her. She's different, but it's the best way that she could possibly be. You almost understand why Clint puts her on a pedestal so easily, even though you know that she's just as fallible as you are. You know that she's capable of having bad days, but all that knowledge does is make you want to help her through them. You want to help her through every bad day or sad day and cheer her on through all of her good days. 

You want to do for her what she does for other people.

 

* * *

 

Even when your hand is burning with a pain that you've never quite felt before, you can't find yourself to be mad at Maru at all. You hope that your smile doesn't look too much like a grimace when you tell her that you're fine, really, that it doesn't hurt at all, but you're not sure if it has the intended effect. It seems impossible to be angry with her when she looks like that: eyes wide with horror, mouth agape as she apologizes a few dozen times. It's only then that you truly comprehend what the weird feeling in your gut is. It's the same feeling that compels you to make the long trek up to her house just to say hello to her, the same feeling that makes you drop off battery packs at the clinic in hopes that she'll smile when she sees them.

She has pretty expensive tastes, as you assume most scientists do. She likes iridium and gold and diamonds, and Yoba knows that you would spend eons mining in order to give her what she truly likes. But for every gem or bar of ore, she likes more sentimental things, too. She likes batteries and pies and berries, and she reacts to those just as fondly as she does the expensive gifts. Maybe that's the best part about her, you think. She appreciates you for your meaning behind the gifts that you give her, not what they actually are.

You're in love with her, and knowing that you're screwed has never felt so calming. You're in love with the way that she pushes up her glasses, in love with the way that her entire body moves when she laughs. It's simple when you put it like that, even though some distant part of your brain informs you that you're spiraling down a dangerous, dangerous path.

 

* * *

 

When you read Elliott's novel for the first time, you marvel at the way that he writes romance. It's engaging and complex and mesmerizing, so three-dimensional that you wonder if he's basing his characters off of people that he knows. He writes about romance as if he already knows how love ends, and how it isn't always good. It's not until you find yourself analyzing every singular line of dialogue that the main character says that you come to the conclusion that you're as hopeless for Elliott as his characters are for each other.

Is Elliott the type of writer to write sonnets and flowery poetry? He seems that way, sometimes, but you're not sure if he's even a poet at all. You haven't written much of anything in a long, long time, but you think that you would pick up a pen again for him. Your rhymes and meters would not be as professionally pretty as his would be, of course, but you would certainly try. Sometimes you just _look_ at him and accidentally think of some lines that you would put in your imaginary poetry, which has started to become really inconvenient.

Maybe someday you'll write some of it, probably half-chicken scratch and mostly unfinished. Maybe you'll shove it underneath his front door so that he'll have to end up brushing the sand off. Maybe you'll let him know that he did an impossible thing and turned you into a writer, too. Probably not, though, because then that would mean one very awkward conversation - one where you have to say  _sorry, I'm in love with five other people, too,_ \- and you're not sure you want to be rejected quite so directly.

No, that just won't do. Your love poetry for him is best kept safe in your head.

 

* * *

 

 _He would make a fine farmer,_ you think, as Harvey's hands stitch up your wounds a quarter past midnight. So many parts of farming require a precise touch, from holding fragile plants to making sure that the glass jars for jams and jellies don't break. It's a very appealing thought, the concept of him on the farm with you. You could roll over in the mornings and see him there, all sleepy smiles and no glasses. He's such a coffee lover, and such a workaholic, too, so he'd probably wake up even before you do. It's a pretty train of thought, but a treacherous one, so you push it back into the depths of your mind and focus on the man in front of you.

He's rambling -  anxiety-induced, no doubt - about how Linus had dragged your ass out of the mines and  _oh, Yoba, you could have died down there! It's so cold that you would have frozen before morning!_ You nod along, delirious from both the pain and the way that his hand feels pressed against your arm. Maybe it's the years that you spent with nothing more than Joja Co., or maybe it's the fact that you are more love than human being, but you are horribly sensitive when it comes to touch. Whenever he shifts his hands and arms to get a better position for his stitches, you find yourself swallowing. It's  _nice,_ but overwhelming, and more than a bit intoxicating. There's nothing sensual about it, but it is still quite intimate.

You wonder if he feels it, too. Does he feel the fact that it's just you and him alone at night as he fusses over you like a worried husband? Does he realize that you are so  _stupid_ and  _hopeless_ and absolutely fucking yearning for him, all of the time? He's a smart man, you know that. He's way too smart to not see the signs, though you know from personal experience that denial is quite a tricky thing. Or maybe he doesn't realize that there's anything wrong at all, simply because you act like this with everybody. You can't tell if that's a relieving thought or a horrifying one.

 

* * *

 

The rain starts to remind you of Sebastian.

He's a storm in his own right, you reckon. He's fierce and volatile and passionate, but when the water touches your shoulders, it still feels like a kiss. Your first impression of him isn't the greatest, you'll admit that, but it only takes a handful of days before you realize why he acts the way that he does. When you're understanding with him, when you wait for him to finish his programming work instead of interrupting him, he acts so surprised, as if nobody has ever let him do his work in peace before. The expression that he makes is so soft that you ache to run down to Pierre’s and pick out a hundred bouquets. You don't think that Robin or Demetrius  _intend_ to treat him as if his accomplishments aren't important, but there's a clear lack of communication that even an outsider like you can see.

As you give him his time and space, he gives you his friendship. Rainy days are quickly starting to become some of your very favorites, if not simply due to the memory of standing under an umbrella with him on the beach. Your feet often take you to the mountain lake in the evenings, and the second that he says that he doesn't mind if you stay, you find yourself there most nights. You'll fish or work on some of your crafting, and he'll stand next to you. Sometimes you talk, and sometimes you don't, but you don't really have a preference one way or the other. Just being near him is more than enough.

The rain comes and goes, but it's treasured all the same.

 

* * *

 

You never disturb Haley when she's busy taking pictures, but sometimes you just... look at her. Not too long, and not in a creepy way, but it's a side of her that you never really get to see. She seems bored most of the time, daydreaming about being somewhere else and with someone else. But when she's taking pictures, she's in her element. It's where she wants to be and it's what she wants to be doing, and it shows. It shows in the way that her eyes squint as she fiddles with the dials on her camera, shows in the way that she'll throw a hand over her face in order to see where the good lighting will be. You come to realize that maybe the reason that Haley acts the way that she does is simply because she doesn't have enough opportunities to do what she loves.

You're not exactly sure what changes her, but something does. With the seasons, she becomes easier to talk to, more likely to laugh at your jokes instead of rolling her eyes at them. Maybe it's you, or maybe it's her, or maybe it's something else entirely, but you start to relax in her presence. You're so used to being on your guard around her, to preparing yourself for some half-assed rude remark, that you don't even realize that your feelings are romantic until you're sketching out possible peppermint coffee recipes in your notebook.

 _Huh,_ you think, and put the ideas in a drawer for safekeeping. Haley is a lot more than you've given her credit for in the past, and finding out more about her is a puzzle that you've never been more intrigued to put together. Her interest in shopping and clothes is very sincere and very valid, but it's so different from who you are that you find yourself enthralled by how it all works. You want to go shopping with her sometime, even (or maybe especially) if she makes you hold all of her bags as she runs ahead in excitement. She's not the person that she was when you first met her, but you come to the conclusion that she is very, very easy to love.

 

* * *

 

The first time that Alex ever says something that's not about how awesome he is, all you can think is  _oh._

His feet shuffle in place as he tells you about his parents, his eyes anywhere but your own. You don't know much about his mother, but you instantly decide that he must take after her. Alex is arrogant, sure, but he is the farthest thing from his father's cruelty that he speaks about. Even though you would not have been able to come to that conclusion so certainly just a few weeks ago, you now know that answer as truly as if it resides in your own bones. He talks not out of self-pity, but out of genuine grief for the mother that did not get to live for as long as she should have. You're not sure how old he was when she passed, but you can tell that he'd been old enough to remember her and to love her as fiercely as a child can. It's a wretched thing, the fact that he'd had to grow up without her. Evelyn and George are good for him, you know that, but the longing that trembles within his voice is something you know that he has had to bear during every waking moment.

You fall for him somewhere in between  _phi-lo-so-phy_ and him crying to you on the beach. You're not sure if the way that he had acted before had been a front or a version of him that no longer exists, but you don't miss it. His self-confidence is so much more gorgeous when it's not intertwined with narcissism, and he's ridiculously more attractive when he's not talking about how hot  _the ladies_ think that he is. He's perhaps the most unexpected love of yours, but you find yourself caring for him just as deeply as you do for everybody else. You're not sure if he'll ever become a gridball star, not sure if he even wants to be one anymore, but you know that you'll be right next to him while he figures all of it out.

 

* * *

 

It's pretty obvious to you that Leah's been burned before. You can see it in the way that she's not close to anybody else in town, even though she's been there for longer than you have. You can see it in the way that some of her art pieces elicit lonely expressions on her face when she talks about them. For a very long time, you barely know Leah at all. She's hard to find when she wants to be, and you're too scared of pushing her boundaries to chase after her too much. Every encounter that you do have with her is nice, though, from the pleasant small talk in the saloon to helping her plan out future art events in her cottage. There's a certain aspect of mystery to her that never quite goes away, even after more than a few early morning conversations. That's okay to you, though, because there are things that you don't like to talk about, too.

You know bits and pieces about the ex that she left behind, and nothing that you've heard sounds very pleasant. When you finally do meet Kel, you cannot understand why anybody would treat Leah the way that they do. Her art deserves to be  _revered_ and _admired_ , not just approved of due to an ulterior motive. Leah spends all day and night on it every single day, so the concept of Kel only liking it to get her back is completely baffling. She deserves someone who will love her and understand her, somebody who will help her put her art first, not some city slicker from her past who never even liked it to begin with. 

You realize that your anger on her behalf goes a little beyond friendly justice when your teeth start to ache from how hard you're gritting them. Okay, sure, maybe you  _do_ want all of those good things that Leah deserves to be you, but she deserves that from anybody who is willing and ready to give it to her. You're not sure if you can, and she deserves better than uncertainty. Maybe that's the truest form of love, right? Willingness to let them go so that they can truly be with somebody who can put her as the priority that she deserves to be?

 

* * *

 

Shane scares you at first, but the absolute scariest thing about him is the fact that you see yourself in him.

You see yourself in the way that his glaze over sometimes when he's sipping on his third or fourth beer. You see yourself in the way that he'd hung his head low the morning that he'd come to your front door, after he'd almost made a terrifying decision. It's who you had been before you'd come to Pelican Town, way back when. It's who you had been when all you had known was that you hated your job and that you could barely escape it.

That's why you put up with the  _go away_ s at first, but the more genuine that your attempts to talk to him become, the quicker that his rebuttals disappear. You are fast to learn that Shane is  _funny._ He refers to his stomach as the  _ol' bag_ and he eats so many pepper poppers that his tongue swells with it, and sometimes when you talk to him, you laugh until you cry. He hates his job, but he says that he would hate being unemployed more, so he tells you about his shitty customers (all of whom you suspect are Pam) and you giggle at all of the right bits. His eyes become sharper with every new day that you talk to him, and his smile becomes more and more genuine. You're not an idiot, you know that people cannot cure other people, but you're simply thankful that you were able to be here for Shane's journey to recovery to begin.

Drinking with him is a dangerous activity, because you quickly start to wonder what it would be like if you kissed him, right then and there. Maybe he'd kiss you back, or maybe he wouldn't, and maybe he'd regret either of those decisions the morning after. It's a thrilling concept, but one that you can never risk, so you learn to swallow your words right beside your pale ale. If he ever notices, he never calls you out on it. You can never decide if that's a good or a bad thing.

 

* * *

 

It’s with horror that you realize that you’ve fallen in love with every single person in Pelican Town. You love all of them so differently but so strongly, with no singular person truly mattering more than the next. 

What can you even do at this point? It’s not like you can date all of them. You’re not even sure if all of them are ready for romantic relationships, or if they want them at all. That doesn’t stop you from caring so deeply or so dramatically, though. Not at all.

It’s with a sinking heart that you decide that there’s no point in telling any of them right now. Maybe some day you can figure out an actual plan, but that day is definitely not today. Not when you’d been greeted with twelve blinding smiles at separate times this morning, with all of them being equally disarming. You could never date just one of them, not when there would be eleven others on your mind, so you hold your dreams and admiration close to your soul and vow to never let them go.

Even if you can never be with them, you will love them all as deeply and earnestly as you can, for as long as they’ll have you. That’s a promise.


End file.
